


Breathe for me

by jeza_red



Category: Bloodborne
Genre: A take on the NG+ situation, Angst, Attempted Fix-It, M/M, Or Is he?, The Hunter is destined to suffer alone, a bit of everyone is mentioned, a lot of blood and typical Alfred-centric disturbing things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come with me,” the Hunter asks afterwards. “Death can wait. Come with me.”<br/>Tasting ash in his mouth, Alfred goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What if...

**Author's Note:**

> A take on the NG+ situation - how does it work for the Hunter to be given a choice of returning to the Dream that cost him his sanity?  
> The ting is based on the premise that the Hunter doesn't allow Gherman to send him awake and stays in the Workshop - and the Moon presence lets him back into the Dream time and time again, because why not? MP is sympathetic to his pain, but some things are impossible to change.  
> Or are they?

 

“What have you done?” The Hunter asks him, aghast, voice trembling with the strain of keeping the shock filling his eyes back. “Alfred, what have you done?!”

Alfred looks briefly down, at the gloved hands clenched on the wads of his overcoat, fingers trying to encircle his biceps, and a thought briefly appears in his mind: he’s filthy. Her cursed blood soaks his clothes, Her cursed flesh taints him.

That thought, instead of disgust, brings him joy.

“I’ve done it!” He says, laughs, shouts it for all to hear. There are splinters of bone on his tongue. “I’ve done it! The cursed creature will taint this world with Her presence no longer!”

“Alfred, what have you…” The Hunter tries to shake him, but his heart is obviously not in it, he barely pushes the Executioner back a step.

 _Do you not see?_ Alfred wants to ask. _All around us, Her! That stained throne and the bloody puddle at our feet, Her! The high and mighty Queen of the Vilebloods turned into a stain to be washed off by the servants!_

He wipes some of the blood and gelatinous flesh before it falls into his eyes and thinks, hysterically, _it’s Her_!

“She’s dead!” He howls instead, insides burning with the fire he’s never felt before. It’s what the Saints must feel, he reasons, the Martyrs and the Righteous, the Holy fire of the Healing Church's justice! “Now my master can rest in peace and his Martyrdom will be uncontested!”

The Hunter, however, does not look as overjoyed at these news as he should be. His hands drop from Alfred’s shoulders like dead weight and he takes a measured step back. He tugs the mask down - and Alfred sees for the first time that his face is hardly fit for a man.

Ah, he thinks, too late now for that…

Such a damn pity, he thinks.

He watches, instead, how the off-coloured eyes take in the scene, how they widen at the sight of the throne painted with its Queen, at the Wheel dripping with pus and the strands of hair caught in the axis - to finally stop at him.

Strangely, there’s no joy in them - neither the grey one, nor the yellow one are alighted with the same internal flame that Alfred imagines bursting out of his every pore.  The Hunter takes another step back.

“Alfred,” his lips move, but for some reason the voice sounds distorted, stretched out. Maybe because the light is so bright around them now, maybe because all other sounds have disappeared - everything is just fire and lack of Her heartbeat. “What have you done.”

I have saved us, he wants to say, I have saved them!

I have done my sworn duty, why are you not sharing my joy?

In his life, admittedly short when compared to his master, he’s had people look at him with fear. He’s experienced common folk looking at him with awe, with jealousy, with thinly-veiled hate, even. That’s why it startles him that he can not decipher the look he’s being regarded with now.

“Alfred, not you…”

After all, he has never thought himself pitiful.

But, however unpleasant that thought is, it dies in the holy fire with all the others.

 

 


	2. What if he told the truth?

The Hunt has barely started and the beasts infest the streets tightly enough to get in the way of a man in a hurry. The common folk hunters are no better, Alfred thinks, their degradation is a hard thing to witness, but he can hardly spare any pity on them. If he followed his heart to dispatch them all with some measure of grace, he’d spend whole night running the streets like a madman himself.

No, he can’t afford to waste his time while the veil is thin and there’s a chance of finding an open passage to Cainhurst.

He’s been searching for years now, many Hunts he’d sacrificed to this mission, but the goal never feels any closer. He’s alone, the last of his Order, aware that he’s becoming something of a pariah in the Church’s eyes. He’s been left behind, for whatever reason, by his Master and it stings when he allows himself to think about it.

He doesn’t react to the mounting hostility from the newest acolytes - he understands them. New, spring wolf pups, still on shaky legs, with their bellies empty, hungry for fame and recognition - and here he is, an old dog with no pack to stand with him. A challenge to overcome, an easy way to gain fleeting appreciation of their peers.

But he’s still strong enough to show these pups their place, still he is at the top. They can crowd around him and bark at him all they want, but with one snap of his jaws they’ll step away like scolded children. He brings them shame, he knows, just like the straggling hunters from the Workshop used to bring shame to him and his peers when they were young and foolish.

These grizzly men and women with their stained leathers and terrifying weapons; these relics of the past, prowling the streets of Yharnam like demons, slaying everything that stood in their way. With their eyes shadowed, faces hidden… scavengers, young Alfred thought of them, rabid dogs that should be exterminated along with those they hunted.  

And yet he’d never dared - none of them dared, - because every time these Hunters would just look at them… there were ages in their eyes. Calm like frozen water, cold like the stars above, these eyes dared them to come closer where bullets awaited flesh and serrated weapons thirsted for blood. And, young and foolish as they were, they’d never dared to step up to these old wolves.

And these pups won’t dare to step up to him, not for a while yet, at least.

This night looks like it will be a long one. Well, every Hunt seems endless, but some are more harrowing than the others.

Alfred wanders the Cathedral Ward like a lost soul, looking into some trails he’s dreamed up since the last Hunt, but, as always, nothing checks out properly. Maybe the world changes during the Night? Maybe roads cross differently now, he doesn’t know, he’s not a Choir-child, he barely has a grasp on this reality as it is.

The giants trail their eyes after him, but his garb and his badge give him protection from their wrath. Once it used to be his brothers standing guard before the Cathedral, in the past; proud and bright, beautiful in their unbroken faith. Now it’s just monsters everywhere, poor wretches that the Choir keeps pulling out of the catacombs. No more honour, no more grace, all is just monsters now.

He falls to his knees before the small altar and prays. His spirit needs soothing, and even if the Blood has provided his body with vigour, a moment of meditation surely won’t go amiss.

That is, if no one disturbs him, stomping around his quiet retreat like a beast.

With a weary sigh Alfred finishes his prayer and gets up to his feet, palming the grip of the sword, ready for battle… but it’s just a Hunter.

His hand falls down as the Hunter closes the distance between them. The man’s stride is long and purposeful, his clothes covered in gore, but his weapons are sheathed - and what weapons these are! It is slightly awe-worthy that someone this short can move comfortably with the heavy scabbard of a holy blade strapped to their person.

But it’s the shape of a foreign firearm at his hip that catches Alfred’s attention. Evelyns were rare and in extremely short supply after...   _after_ all ways to Cainhurst have been sealed off. So how…?

He doesn't have much time to wonder before something else about the Hunter vies for his attention. The eyes he can see under the rim of the ragged hat are glaring at him with utmost displeasure, and one of them is yellow.

“Ah,” Alfred says, when the silence stretches between them. He’d return to his prayer, but the Hunter seems to battle with himself about something and the faster he concludes the conflict, the faster he’ll leave. “You’re a beast hunter, aren’t you?”

He has a precious second to see the off-coloured eyes widen fractionally before the punch snaps his head to the side and rocks him back on his feet.

His ears ring and blood from a bitten tongue doesn’t taste half as good as the one from a bottle, but he’s more impressed with the strength behind the assault than angered by it. The Hunter barely reaches his nose, after all, and seems rail-thin...

“Not a bad attempt,” he praises, because it deserves a praise. “My name is Alfred, by the way.”

“I know your name,” the Hunter doesn’t reciprocate the courtesy of introduction. “I know who your Master is, Alfred. I’ve met him.”

Is. Not was. _Is._

Breath catches in Alfred’s throat and he can feel his ribcage growing tight, his heart stuttering in that unrelenting grip.

“You’ve been to Cainhurst…” he chokes out. Wanting to believe. Not ready to believe.

The Hunter nods once, a short movement, right hand going up to his pocket and stopping short, as if the gesture was unintentional. Instead, he uses it to pull his mask down - something that Alfred has never seen any Hunter do, now that he thinks about it, - and the Executioner’s ribs tighten even more.

Gods, that’s too pretty of a face to be mauled by a beast. Up close the scar running across the yellow eye is visible, but still does nothing to take away form the overall loveliness of the whole visage.

He has to beat himself into submission before his mind starts wandering down the most inappropriate roads. After all, there’s more important issue at hand to consider.

Alfred is not a physically inclined person, never has been, but his hands grab the stranger’s arms as if all the Hunter wanted to do as to drop this crushing message on his head and fly right after. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is aware that he’s putting his hands on a half-beast here, that the Hunters unaffiliated with the Church are volatile and not to be trusted, but…

But this man holds still under his desperate scrutiny, unaffected by the bruising grip on his shoulders. Like a stone statue; there’s a strength in him that shines through the frail posture like a beacon of hope.

“Tell me,” Alfred gasps when his throat tightens around the words. “ _Tell me!_ ”

The Hunter considers him for a long moment, as if weighing the answers in his mind. There’s that conflict again, his dark eyebrows pull together and it’s only so much that Alfred can do not to try and smooth them out with his fingertips. He doesn’t understand it, but there’s something about this man that he wants to _taste…_

“ _Tell me_ ,” he begs, because every second of waiting is chipping away at his bones.

The conflict comes to an end.

_“I’ve killed him.”_

The world is set aflame in front of his eyes.

“I’ve killed him and unmade his sacrifice. You’re free now...”

The blade slips under his ribs almost noiselessly and the Hunter chokes. His eyes are wide as he stares at the sword, then follows it up until his sight rests on its owner’s face. Alfred doesn't know what the man sees in him, but he’s not especially bothered by the struck silence between them now. His hands are shaking, they shouldn’t shake, he’s supposed to be better than that. He’s supposed to be…

The Hunter takes a step back, then another, and before Alfred understands what he’s attempting or has a chance to follow, the blade has slipped out and bright blood bursts out of the wound left after. It smells surprisingly sweet.

“You will not listen, then,” the Hunter whispers brokenly. A vial flashes between his fingers, sour smell of Ministration cleanses the air from the sweet temptation of sin.

It has to be sin. The man was in Cainhurst. He was tainted. Mad. A monster.

A pretty little poisoned blade, nothing more, nothing less.

He rarely battled another swordsman, rarely had a chance to test his skills against an evenly-matched opponent, but this time it’s a close fight. A very close one.

He _almost_ wins.

“I didn’t want you to die…” the Hunter disgraces him still as the last dregs of breath rattle between Alfred’s crushed ribs. “I thought… forgive me…”

He reaches with one trembling hand to that pretty face. It’s bloody and bruised, but the Ministration is doing its job and slowly the wounds are closing, skin fills in the holes, new teeth replace the lost ones. The Hunter lets him touch his face and Alfred wants to tear into it until he reaches bone, to claw that yellow eye out… but his fingers do nothing - as if possessing a mind of its own the hand just rests on the pale, healing skin until his strength wanes completely.

The Hunter weeps for him and Alfred dies in disgrace.

 

 

 


	3. What if he didn’t show up?

The Night stretches and Alfred prays.

His legs went numb from kneeling on the cold stone a long time ago, his mouth has dried and his tongue feels like a piece of wood, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

None of the ways he’s envisioned worked, none of the paths has been the right one, and time after time he’s been back at this altar. As if all the roads in Yharnam conspired to keep him within the Cathedral Ward.

There’s two ways about it.

Gods are cruel, and want to punish him for his misdeeds. Alfred can accept that. This is expected, after all, he’s been left behind. He wasn’t good enough for Master Logarius, he has failed in some way and this was his punishment. He was to stay in this Limbo and pray forgiveness.

Gods are benevolent, and wish to send him a sign. This, Alfred is able to believe. He stays in place, then, so that the holy sign doesn’t pass him by. It would be a magnificent end to his already failed existence – to miss a blessing, because he was looking the other way.

So he kneels and prays and hope burns brightly in his chest, a spark of light in the darkness.

…but the Night is long and the weight of it grows heavy on his shoulders, and with every moment where nothing changes, where no one comes to point him in the right direction, the spark dims.

By the time the Moon turns red, he isn’t aware of his surroundings anymore.

By the time Yharnam disappears under a sea of blood, he’s barely aware of himself. Words he doesn’t understand fall form his lips, meaningless sounds that echo under his empty ribs. His body feels dry and transparent, his soul surprisingly heavy.

There’s no rescue, then, he thinks. No one will come to save him from this cursed existence.

He hoped… he had a feeling that… this strange expectation kept him upright throughout the night, but… the sky was brightening in the East, the Hunt was coming to an end and Alfred was filed with strange surety that he’s the only one left in Yharnam to see it.  

So he watches the first rays of the sun in the narrow mirror of the blade before his blood washes them away.


	4. What if he’s had enough?

The plaza is a bloodbath. 

Alfred stops at the gate, aghast, when first corpse comes into his view. 

The giants were always rather pitiful in his opinion, forever stuck in the doorway of Death, shuffling around like lost spirits. Poor replacement they’ve been for the Brothers and the Sisters that used to guard the Cathedral with their arms and lives. Graceless and daft beings, hardly bringing honour to the clothes thrown at them. 

They were vicious, though, and unrelenting in their wrath. Near impossible to kill. What beast was strong enough to tear them apart like they were nothing but ragdolls? 

Well, him, probably. He would be able to take one on and damage it enough that it fell apart, but… he wasn’t stupid enough to stand against – how many?

He counts three great bells amidst the carnage, but assumes there may be a fourth somewhere – it’s hard to tell, really, the simple count of limbs is rarely a good indicator of how things stand in Yharnam. 

He kicks a black hat to the side and for a moment fears that some unfortunate Brother got in the way of the beast... but no, there’s a head it belonged to not too far ahead, and it’s just a warden. Black eye sockets stare at him from the bloodless face as Alfred passes without another glance, trying to make sense out of this morbid scene. 

Something catches his attention, though, and his blood runs cold. One of the corpses sits against a crumbling tombstone – its lower half does, at least. A warden that has been cut across the chest, halved like a loaf of bread, ribs and spine cut neatly to line. And above the ravaged flesh there’s a gouge in the stone half a hand deep. A jagged groove left by a force one can hardly comprehend.

With new eyes Alfred looks around him and sees the battle as it happened, knows what beast went through this place. There’s one weapon he’s seen that would leave this kind of damage; that would render flesh and bones into splinters and send blood spraying across the street if need be. He’s seen it in action, once, when he was a young fool and his peers decided it’s a good idea to bother a Hunter on a prowl. 

He wasn’t a complete idiot, even back then; he recognised the feathered hat, the distinctive colour of worn leather cloak – and he stepped back. That bit of distance proved to be the only thing that saved his skin when famed old Henryk grew tired of the dogs yapping at his heels and unsheathed the cleaver from the strap on his back. 

Come to think of it, the old man was the only Hunter Alfred has ever seen – before and after – to ever sheathe his weapons. As if he knew that whatever comes his way, he will always be quicker on the draw. 

He was. 

Quicker, stronger, more vicious than the scruffy adepts standing in his way. His weapon of choice tore them to shreds like they were made of parchment, leaving scars that no amount of Blood could smooth away. 

That has been a lesson well taught, for from this point on no adept of the Church dared to dismiss the old Workshop weapons as ineffectual. 

And now, this.

Had the old man gone as mad as the rest? Was it him or some other Hunter? Gascoigne is the only one that comes to mind strong - and insane - enough to cut a man in half in one go...

A shrieking wail tears through the still air and Alfred’s ribs constrict in reaction to the clearly feminine undertone of it. That is no common monster, he knows.

A cleric, he curses silently in his head. Another Saint has fallen to the curse! 

The sound comes from the Grand Cathedral and so that’s where Alfred directs his steps, marching grimly up the stairs soaked in blood and strewn with corpses of even more wardens. 

Was he mistaken? Was it the beast, not a Hunter, that could massacre so many? If it was a cleric, though… well, then the best he could do for them was to put the poor soul out of its misery. 

The screams and roars don't cease as he climbs up and the stone under his feet starts to shake - the beast has to be in agony to cause such ruckus. 

By the time he stops at the massive stone gate his whole frame is vibrating with tension. Decades-long habit urges him to turn the monster into a bloody pulp, but Alfred fights that instinct. A Sister deserves more than a blood-crazed murderer cutting her down, she deserves a quick and clean end and he’ll try to deliver just that. 

There’s no doubt in him, nothing, but the expectation of victory. Gods are merciful to their knights, gods are kind, his faith will see him through. 

However, by the time he crosses the threshold, all movement and noise inside suddenly stops. Heavy silence falls around him and the draft from the inside carries a strange mixture of odours - blood, burnt paper, hot iron and… something sweet. He can't name it, but there’s a note of arsenic in it, underneath the cloying, flowery scent that makes his eyes water and his mouth feel dry all of a sudden. 

Footsteps. 

He looks up, as if pulled out of a trance, and sees someone descending towards him. 

_ A Hunter alright _ , Alfred thinks. But not Henryk, thought this one doesn’t look much more  _ substantial  _ than the old man did. Alfred assumes masculinity only because of the way the stranger walks, otherwise he can state very little. It’s hard to say what the Hunter is wearing or even the colour of it - blood drenches him from head to toes, - but one thing stands out clearly and Alfred’s stomach turns. 

A saw-spear, he thinks it’s called; unfolded, blade lowered casually to the side with its teeth scratching the stone with each step in a thin wail of strangled kittens. 

The stranger stops a few paces from him and Alfred’s hand is already tight around the grip of the Kirkhammer. They stare at one another for an unbearably long moment as the Executioner tries to gather enough moisture on his tongue to start asking questions. That sweet poison invades his senses and he wishes he could step out of the doorway, get some fresh air into his lungs; that it wouldn't be seen as a retreat. 

The Hunter is silent, but his eyes pierce Alfred like daggers, full of strange light and one of them is yellow. That means something, he thinks…  _ should  _ mean something, but he can’t think straight, because the smell…

Words of a prayer flash through his struggling mind and once more he is saved by his Grand Master. Poisonous fog disperses under the light of faith and Alfred straightens his shoulders, opens his mouth to demand answers - but is not given a chance to do it.

“ _ Alfred _ ,” the Hunter says his name like it’s a curse. His voice is surprisingly low and raspy, as if he’s been screaming for days until his throat tore.  

Startled by hearing his name, Alfred hesitates. He could swear… but no, he doesn’t  _ know  _ this face.

“So, you still wish for a noble death, do you?” The Hunter speaks and looks over his head, as if he’s lost interest in his face. For some reason it stings like a slap. He doesn’t leave Alfred a chance to retort before nodding, as if to himself. “So be it.”

The air sparkles when their weapons clash and Alfred has only a moment to wonder at the strength of that small body, before his feet leave the floor and he’s crashing down the steps. Kirkhammer falls away, out of his reach. 

The Ministration on the bottom of the first flight is rushed, he stabs the needle too deep, feels it scraping against his hipbone, but it’s either that or being paralysed from the armpits down. In the next breath he pulls on the clasp hidden between the folds of his cloak and (a neat little trick that the Choir came up with) calls in his secondary weapon to hand. 

The wheel groans as the spear bites into it and Alfred can do only so much to keep it in front of himself, before his spine heals enough for a kick that sends the Hunter back. He gets to his feet and spins the wheel, releasing the blades, not even attempting to take this battle lightly. He watches the Hunter shake off his cape and bare his teeth at him, and it’s strange, but he still  _ doesn’t look _ mad.

“Why do you struggle?” He shouts from the next flight, eyes flashing. “I’m trying to give you what you wish for!”

How could he…

Alfred does his best to block the flurry of slashes and stabs that come his way, but the spear is narrow and the wheel has only so many spokes, and it turns out that even such revered weapon has design flaws. The Hunter moves too fast, Alfred can’t get a good angle to attack and, gods, he has to get off the damn stairs!

“ _ A noble death! _ ” The Hunter snarls at him, hatred marrs a face that might have been pretty if it wasn’t smeared with gore. “For all of you,  _ Church dogs _ ! A quick end to all the  _ monsters  _ of your Order!  _ This is what you want!” _

“You’re  _ mad _ !” Alfred grunts out. Then his feet finally land on an even ground so he heaves the wheel over the shoulder and  _ slams  _ it down in a crushing blow. 

He misses.

The Hunter blinks out of existence in front of his eyes and before he has a chance to back away there’s a heel pinning his hand to the ground and a cold kiss of a muzzle against his temple. He freezes. 

“I am,” the Hunter gasps into his hair. “But what else can I be when nothing I try makes a goddamn difference?” 

“How do you know me?” Alfred asks, desperate to prolong the conversation, to find a way out of this, to maybe…

“I always know you. All of you. This is what Hell looks like, Alfred.” 

“What…?”

“I’ll spare you the worst of it.”

The thunder of a shot takes his vision and his life, but the sweet smell follows him into Death. 

 

 

 


	5. What if he was a coward?

The punch rocks Alfred back on his feet until he crashes into the altar, ears ringing and mouth full of blood. The candles topple to the ground and it’s only a stroke of luck that his robe doesn’t catch fire.

Godsdamnit, the Hunter doesn’t look like much, but he hits like a Pthumerian giant! Hell, his teeth may actually be loose.

Alfred barely gathers enough wits about himself to probe a few of them with his tongue when sharp sting of Ministration brings him out of the haze. The pain disappears in a blink and his eyes fall down to his thigh and a vial sticking out of it, then back up again, along the arm  that holds it in place.

“I’m sorry,” says the Hunter, not looking at him. A rim of a scruffy hat hides his face in shade, but one of the eyes is visible. Strangely, it’s yellow. “I didn’t mean to… You… I took you for someone else.”

Vial empty, the hand retreats and the man along with it – a step back, a shrug. He doesn’t seem like he knows what to do with himself.

Alfred tests his jaw, but the hinge has already popped back into place and the swelling was almost gone. No reason to complain, them. When a hand appears back in his field of vision he takes it without hesitation and, predictably, is swiftly pulled back to his feet.

“Apology accepted,” he speaks when he’s sure that the words won’t slur, and then tries to brush his hair back into place. The fringe has grown long, maybe it’s time for a cut? He can swipe it to the side only for so long. “And, please, relay my utmost pity to the man who had wronged you when you chance upon him.”

There’s a strange smell in the air, sweet and cloying, and for a moment it clouds his thoughts enough that at first he doesn’t realise... But then he does, and his heart stutters.

Executioner’s garb is hard to mistake for any other cloth.

Was he mistaken for _another_ Executioner?

The hand he was fixing his hair with falls casually down and, as it happens, rests on the pommel of the sword. A smooth, practiced gesture; not alarming in the slightest. It makes him look slightly more dignified and self-assured, so that’s two birds killed with one stone, isn’t it?

The Hunter, indeed, doesn’t look alarmed. He looks distracted, rather, glancing about and shifting on his feet like there were places and people awaiting his presence, and he searched for an excuse not to go.

“Say,” Alfred is all too willing to provide it. “Who it was and what did he do to earn such rough treatment? I’m sure it can all be resolved peacefully, without unnecessary bloodshed.”

Whatever the Hunter took from his words it causes an unexpected bout of laughter from him – an unpleasant, raspy sound that ends in a strangled gasp. Alfred’s fingers twitch on the pommel even as his feet carry him closer to the man.

“Come, now,” he reaches out, unexpected concern spilling inside his chest. “I’m hardly that amusing.”

“Oh no, quite the opposite,” the Hunter twists on a heel and it’s him who has Albert by the wrist, fingers tight enough for the leather glove to creak. “You’re a riot, dear Alfred.”

His blood runs cold.

So, it’s going to be like that. A blood-drunk Hunter with some sort of dreamed up personal vendetta. A pity, the man is quite beautiful and there’s something about his manner that pulls the Executioner in, forces him to _pay attention_.

“I’m at a slight disadvantage, I’m afraid,” he still tries to talk his way out, even as his mind is casting for the best strategy for an upcoming battle. “I wasn’t aware of our previous acquaintance…?”

The grip on his wrist, impossibly, tightens – a minute more and he’ll lose the feeling in his fingers. Is it a warning? Anger? Can the Hunter read his mind and see what move he intends to start – and hopefully end – the battle with?

But then he tilts his head a bit and all Alfred can see on the shadowed face is despair.

“We're not acquainted.” He gets his hand back and doesn’t know what to do with it. He’d put it around this stranger, he’d use it to anchor him to his chest… he does none of these things, of course. “I don’t know you,” the Hunter admits in a shaky voice. “Not really. Just your name, from another… another friend.”

Once again, Alfred’s mind is clouded by the scent enough that for a moment he doesn’t care. Simply doesn’t care about the meaning that can be pulled out of these words, about the hope and the possibility of a long awaited sign from the gods… He just wants… He wishes he could… Gods, what is wrong with him?

“Would you listen to me?” His head is held in place by hands covered in rough leather and Alfred doesn’t mind in the slightest. Heh, the Hunter’s eyes are off-colour, how unusual. “Would you listen this one time?”

He listens.

The hunter tells him everything, all the truth about Master Logarius’ sacrifice, and each word that falls from his lips sears Alfred like fire paper against bare skin.

Then, when he weeps like a child, the Hunter holds him upright and allows him to gasp curses into his overlong, mousy hair.

 

**

 

They sit on the stone, afterwards, shoulder to shoulder, leaning on the altar, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight. Alfred reinstalled them, after he came back to his senses, just to do something with his hands and escape that piercing, pitiful stare just for a moment.

But now, as they sit in companionable silence, the misery and shame start to creep back in; heavy weight of sorrow settles against his breastbone, making it hard to draw breath.

What is he going to do now? His brothers are all gone, all dead. His Master has sacrificed himself to an impossible task of keeping Cainhurst under lock and key. The Queen can’t be killed.

Oh, he was so naive. So cocksure! To think that he, by himself, with his meager resources and strength, would be able to accomplish what dozens of his betters hasn’t been able to!

What’s left to him, now? What fate other than...

The Hunter distracts him from finishing that thought when he opens up his rucksack and pulls a bottle out of it. It’s dirty, plugged with a piece of rag, but that is swiftly removed before the whole smelly business is offered to Alfred like a treat.

“What,” he states more than asks.

“It’s a spirit,” the Hunter explains patiently. “It’s good for you, drink.”

A spirit? Who on Earth would dare to pour something so foul in their mouth?

The bottle retreats after a moment. “Suit yourself.” Thin lips cling to the chipped glass and Alfred stares, mesmerised, like a child watching some disgusting and entirely enrapturing performance. “Heh, not bad,” the Hunter states after a couple mouthfuls. “It’s only in Yharnam that no one appreciates good moonshine, you know?” He looks at the Executioner like he expects him to be in on the joke.

“Why would anyone drink this…?” Alfred is still sceptical, even more so when the bottle is all, but forced into his hands. “I mean, we have much better...”

“Blood, obviously,” the man rolls his eyes. “But blood doesn’t do what this thing does, and you need it now, I think. Drink.”

Alfred swishes the bottle around, stalling, and raises one eyebrow in humour. “And what does this outlandish concoction do, my friend?” Ah, to hell with it! He pushes past distaste and takes a long swing.

“It helps you forget, for a while.”

Yes, it does. He forgets how to breathe for a substantial amount of time and then has to forget about the embarrassment of having the Hunter laugh at his failed attempt to keep his dignity.

But he takes another swing, then another. They share the bottle until next one takes its place, and so on. They don’t speak, but the Hunter is a comforting presence at his side, and Alfred is glad for it. The spirit is strong and tastes like liquid fire - no wonder it burns so well - and works differently from blood. It doesn’t hit one with euphoria like a good quality Ministration, it doesn’t send one back into pleasant dreams. The languid feeling is creeping on slowly, instead.

By the time Alfred realises that his head feel too light, his body is decidedly too heavy. He slumps to the side, against the Hunter, who doesn’t seem to care about the additional weight on his shoulder.

There may be something to this whole outsider business, Alfred is willing to concede. Briefly.

“How does it feel?” For some reason, the Hunter takes care to pronounce his words very carefully. “Nice, eh…?”

“I feel… Is this even safe?” It takes altogether too much willpower to lift his head. “I feel like one spark… could set me on fire…”

The hand on his chin pulls his head up for him and Alfred is about to thank the man, but he can’t - there’s a pair of lips against his. Dry and chapped in places, but soft and insistent.

So, he burns.

 

*

He is not really good at kissing, he is perfectly willing to admit. Where he grew up no one really was - it happened, but not often and wasn't really considered all that vital. He’s willing to let the Hunter get what he wants from it and simply enjoys it for his sake. That is, until a body settles itself firmly across his lap and that...

Well, now, _that_ is something he _is_ good at. He can take it from here.

 

**

“Come with me,” the Hunter asks afterwards. “Death can wait. Come with me.”

Tasting ash in his mouth, Alfred goes.

 

**

The Night by his new companion’s side never ends, but Alfred doesn’t mind, not really. He’s being entertained enough to ignore the fact that the Moon hasn’t moved in any direction since the sun went down hours - days? - ago.  

He learns quickly that there’s no name attached to the Hunter, no past he can recall; there’s only purpose filling his veins and pushing him forward. Alfred is not privy to that purpose, though he also doesn't mind that, since everything else is his for the taking.

They fuck in the backalleys and burned down houses, both sticky with blood and high on fear. The Hunter allows Alfred to manhandle him, even though he could probably break the Executioner in half if he put his mind to it - there’s a thrill in that, too, in not knowing when it’s too fast, too much, how far he can push. In exchange, Alfred allows the man to steal all the air from his lungs and gnaw on his tongue for as long as he wishes. They fit, surprisingly, all of their broken off edges neatly slot together and they fit.

He is even shown where his companion stores his heart - in the Odeon Chapel, where the refugees crowd around an incense burner as the beasts rage outside. It’s a strange gathering of characters, Alfred thinks, and the Hunter is surprisingly picky about bringing in new ones.

The little girl from across the fountain plaza is a sweet child in obvious need of help, with both of her parents gone; but the moment Alfred opens his mouth to invite her with them, the Hunter gives him a glare that almost sets him on fire. They leave the child in an empty house and the only explanation he gets to this cruelty is a vague mutter of “ _She’s safest here, now._ ”

“Trust me,” is the only thing the Hunter asks of him, so Alfred does.  

They march up and down the city, fighting and killing, and that seems to be enough. Hardly a glorious existence, but it’s something… something to fill in the emptiness in his chest, to banish the loneliness. He still prays, but rarely now, only when they run out of the burning spirits.

It feels lighter, with time, like he’s hollowing on the inside, as if alcohol and scalding passion kept burning him out.

It's only the sickly man, Gilbert, who accidentally  gives Alfred the first push out of the malaise he’s slowly falling into.

“He does that,” Gilbert says to him, when the Hunter prays at the lamp.

Weird things that Alfred never paid attention to, these lamps. Spread around the town in the most inconvenient places, and every once in awhile the Hunter will kneel at one and fall into some sort of a trance. Alfred has learned to wait those out, but it still creeps him out when the shadows around the lamp start to move on their own.

“I wonder what is he seeing in there?”

“There?” Alfred starts paying attention. He leans against the bars and peeks inside  the tiny room. Gilbert sits in the dark, only his eyes are clearly visible - big and shiny with moisture. He might have been a handsome man before the sickness started to devour his flesh - that thought doesn't sit well with him for some reason. “There, where?”

“In the dream… Didn’t he tell you about it?”

That sits even worse.

“Maybe, but I probably wasn’t paying attention,” he can play a charming dimwit if need be. “Can you jog my memory?”

Gilbert is a good man, Alfred has to admit, an intelligent one, too. But he’s also hopelessly lonely and it doesn’t take much to have him talking while the Hunter is safely out of earshot in whatever dream he uses to hide in. Alfred learns about the “pale blood” his companion supposedly searches for and about his rather unfortunate arrival into Yharnam.

“He was very upset…” Gilbert reveals between the bouts of wrenching cough. “He still is, I think… please, do me a favour…”

“Yes?” Alfred can’t think of a reason not to, the man has very little time left.

“Help him find this… whatever it is the searches for… And then get him out of Yharnam.” A pair of eyes stares at him from the darkness like two ghost lanterns. “This town is cursed… help him leave…”

Before Alfred has a chance to retort, the Hunter gasps and gracefully unfolds from his hunched position. He looks refreshed and full of energy, and Alfred wishes that his prayers were as successful at rising spirit. Gilbert acts as of the conversation didn't happen when the man comes to bid him farewell.

Alfred steps away from the window and inspects the lantern that supposedly leads to a dream of some sort; he pretends not to notice that his companion reaches inside the dark room, as far as the iron bars will allow him. He is not a monster, he will not deny a dying man these last dregs of comfort. He will _not_. He’d like to think that he’s better than that.

Sad truth is that - he isn’t.

When they enter the abandoned mansion he pushes the Hunter against the wall and rewrites recent memories of their passion with new ones.

 

***

 

The Hunter doesn't tell him of the dream. Nor does he tell Alfred of the mysterious “pale blood” - and it would make sense, wouldn't it? He’s a member of the Church, he is the best bet at getting the man closer to the Blood Saints.

And for a moment he thinks this is it, the reason behind “ _Come with me_ ”, behind the shared bottles of liquor, behind… everything. But the Hunter never asks him, never mentions the Church - even though Alfred would probably tell him everything he knows at this point.

So he doesn't mention it either. And just settles in for observing.

And the longer he watches, the more he sees. He stops praying, because that’s a waste of time, he stops the emptiness creeping up on him with sheer force of will. He starts tracing the paths they cross and after a time it comes to him.

Visits to the Chapel, notorious checkups on the little girl, on Gilbert.  

But the final pieces slot into place when they enter the Yahar’ghul. A foul place full of macabre and cruelty; Alfred can hardly believe that something like that can exist under the eye of the Church.

“Oh, your Church knows of it,” the Hunter says with barely any inflection, not looking at him. “It has sanctioned its existence.”

Alfred wants to protest such baseless accusation, to protect the name of the Holy Church, to argue - he has left his Order, but he’s still a man of faith! But the Hunter doesn't seem to pay him any attention. He moves with caution, but without confusion, his stride unbroken, and Alfred starts suspecting…

They find the Sister in one of the chambers: a little innocent thing, scared senseless, nearly crying at the sight of his garb. Alfred calms her down when she starts to babble about the monsters that kidnapped her from the Ward.

“Is there somewhere… I mean, any place that would take me in?” She asks with tears in her eyes. “I mean, if you’re willing to... if you could…”

Alfred looks up to the Hunter at that, not really believing that he would refuse to take the girl in, but it’s an instinct he can’t shake. The expression on the man’s face, however, is like a punch to the gut. It lasts for a second only before cold blankness replaces it, but - now as he thinks on it, Alfred has never seen his companion truly angry before.   

“The Clinic in central Yharnam,” the Hunter says. “You should go there, Adella, you’ll be safe.”

They move onwards, through the nightmares. Alfred sees more corpses in that place than he’d ever thought he’d see. How many people died in there? Was it really the whole village? How could that happen? The Church wouldn’t… would it? They fight their way through beasts, diseased and monsters, demented Hunters cross their way only to get dispatched.

His Hunter pushes them forward until they come to rest at, unsurprisingly, another lantern.

“You can sleep,” he says, kneeling into his customary hunched position. “We’re safe here for a while… rest, Alfred, you look like you need it.”

Alfred doesn’t sleep, even though he probably should. He doesn’t feel tired, quite the opposite, he’s full of strange energy. The sweet smell surrounds him as he leans against the Hunter, seeking support when the truth finally strikes him like a slap across the face.

Adella never revealed her name to them.

Why did he send her to the Clinic? They’ve never visited the lady doctor…

They were going in circles for a while now - the Chapel, the windows, the Ward. His Hunter never knocked on any other windows where the incense burned. Only these two. He was never lost, his stride was always sure.

He knew Alfred’s name, knew how to make him abandon death.

He knew.

Gods in heavens, he _knew_.

 

***

 

There’s nothing Alfred can do about it. How can he ask and not sound like a madman?

But, now that he sees it, it’s obvious. His Hunter knows exactly where he’s going, knows that he’ll find there. He seems almost… bored with everything apart from the survivors - and Alfred. As if their presence is the only important thing outside of his dream.

Alfred proposes once - daringly - that they go beyond the city itself, maybe search for a way to the forbidden Byrgenwerth? Maybe whatever scholars remained there will be able to help…

“Why?” The Hunter is quick to ask. Too quick. There’s something haunted in his off-coloured eyes, a suspicion that cuts to the quick. “This is good, for now, isn’t it? This is… nice, like that, right? Why leave it?”

He kisses Alfred soundly and for a while his scent overpowers any doubt.

But the Night is long and doubt feeds on the darkness. By the time Alfred starts to fear fire, he remembers why death seemed so attractive, back then, before liquor and sex convinced him otherwise. He’s slipping and he knows it, but the Hunter doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t _want_ to notice.

The Hunter stalls - Alfred realises in the end. He _knows_ . Where to go and what to do, _but he won’t do it_.

Alfred is not an idiot, he’s aware of the fact that his Hunter is different from the rest - stronger, faster, near impossible to kill. There’s some kind of a future waiting on him that has to do with powers higher than mere mortals can even comprehend. The Moon hasn’t moved from it's place since he met Alfred by the altar.

Alfred is not a blasphemer, doesn’t wish to be, but he’s not an idiot.

There's only one conclusion to be reached and even if it's not a pleasant one, it makes everything clear.

He has to go forward - and they’re holding him back.

 

***

There are paths in Yharnam that only a member of the Church can access. Alfred didn't think to share his knowledge of them with the Hunter before, there was no opportunity, but now he sees a gods’ hand in it. They’re quicker than the shortcuts common folk take and, since the time is of essence, he uses that to his advantage.

The Hunter never stays in the dream for long.

 

****

 

_“Gilbert!”_

The scent proceeds the voice and Alfred finds comfort in the fact that he can still smell it over the stench of blood. He pulls the strange sweetness deep into his lungs and keeps it there for as long as he can, listening to the banging of feet on the escape ladder. It’s a very tall ladder, he thinks, ridiculous, really.

“ _Gilbert, answer me!_ ” The voice tears the air like a rusted blade, words strangled and despaired. “Please, just you…”

Alfred feels his ribs constrict - the pain in that voice tears at his insides. The fact that he’s the one that put it there suffocates him. But mercy can’t be measured by any human means and soon enough his Hunter will see… with a bit of luck, he will even understand.

Steps on stone, rushed and graceless, and Alfred stops breathing.

He doesn’t feel bad, to be honest, the man was on the verge of a change for a

cruelly long time; it was mercy more than anything.

“Gil...“

Still, he could live without ever hearing this little choked-up gasp - in this life it tears through him like a poisoned blade, cuts him open from hip to collarbone.

“No…” the Hunter slips to his knees, lovely off-colour eyes wide and sightless, hands clenched in hopeless desperation on the wrought iron fence. “Why… why this time… I did everything… what did I do wrong?”

If he’s had any doubts before, this feverish whispering disperses them all and Alfred knows that he did the right thing. Gruesome, painful and distasteful thing - but aren't the right choices always hardest to make?

“Where did I go wrong?!” A fist meets iron and the iron gives. Alfred feels strangely proud at the sight. His Hunter is strong. “What did I do?! What do I have to do to keep you all alive?!”

“You have to go.”

The eyes raise to him and, gods, he loves these eyes.

“...Alfred?” The Hunter sounds so small and vulnerable, like a broken man.

Alfred uses it to steel his resolve. That’s what they’ve done to him, he tells himself, they’ve made him weak when he should be stronger than anyone.  

 _He’s_ made him weak.

“You have to go,” he repeats, trying to sound kind, but aware that it comes out slightly unhinged. Ah well. “You have to find the pale blood and ascend.”

“Paleblood… how did you?” Hunter stands up and despair in his eyes reaches new levels when it’s joined by a feeling of betrayal. “Was it… was it you?”

What can he say to that?

“The Chapel… and the children… and,” a look towards the empty window. “Was it… you?”

“We can’t keep you here,” Alfred tries to smile, but drops it after a moment. His face feels dead and stiff. The platform under his feet is old and rickety, the drop ridiculously long. Who designed this, really? “You have to go forward.”

“Alfred, stop.”

“We can’t keep making you weak.”   

“Alfred, no…”

“If you ever meet my Master, pray for him in my stead.”

The drop is really long, but death at the end is still quicker than the one he had envisioned for himself before a sweet scented Hunter stole his dreams.  

 

 

 


	6. What if he lied?

“Would you listen to me?” 

He listens.

The strange Hunter that invaded Alfred's retreat tells him everything. Later, when Alfred rages like a lunatic, the man shows him proof.

The crown is heavy in his hands, the gold is cold and each jewel smooth and clouded. Truly, a relic of despair.

The Hunter never stops looking at him; Alfred vaguely notes that the eyes visible under the rim of an old worn hat are off-colour, that there’s a scar crossing one and that it’s yellow. An artificial trick? No, it doesn't look like glass… Some strange, rare disorder? He has little reason to care…

Hands land on his, gentle fingers tighten over his wrists. He has a strange inkling of strength hidden under the black leather, and a curious, momentary urge to pull away, but he doesn’t. 

The air smells of something sweet, like honeycakes, or blooming linden trees? He doesn’t like it much, but it’s not unpleasant. Better than the sour stench of old blood or rotting corpses, at any rate. And it’s strangely… calming. 

“Do you know how…?” The Hunter asks.

“I know what to do,” Alfred answers and grips the crown tighter. 

Gods, that it came to this! 

“The summons I gave you will take you safely across,” the Hunter says. “The carriage leaves from Hemwick, just behind the stone gate. You’d better be careful there are…”

“I’ll manage.” 

He has a feeling that the Hunter wants to say much more, but the thin lips are bitten closed, the man looks faint, like he’s in some great pain. Yes, Alfred understands, he shares this suffering. Master Logarius was a holy man. 

“Do you… I can accompany you,” the Hunter proposes. “I can make sure you get there safely.”

You sound like you're offering to carry my coffin, Alfred wants to joke, but the humor just isn't in him, so he just shakes his head and forces a tight little smile on his lips. He used to be a charming man, he thinks, it used to come to him effortlessly.  

“I better go alone,” he says instead. “A man should be alone on his last pilgrimage.”

The Hunter lets go of his wrists and that seems like enough of an agreement. He leave shortly after, the scent trailing after him like a veil. Alfred prays in front of the altar until his mouth dries out, keeping the crown close to his chest. The candles are just puddles of wax when he leaves without bothering to put up new ones. 

 

**

Cainhurst is white and bitterly cold. Full of grotesque monsters and pitiful ghosts.

Bodies of his brothers are still there, held in the grasp of this nightmare, strewn like ragdolls on the cold stone. 

The throne burns his back and thighs when Alfred lowers himself on it. A big, awkward affair it is, he thinks with a spark of dark humour. 

He puts the crown on his head and it stops mattering. 

 

**

 

“I think I’m going to try something else this time.”

The Hunter comes and goes, his presence soft and radiant, blood-red shadow on the white expanse of nothingness. Sometimes he sits by the throne, like a child at the confessional; sometimes he just stands in front of it and stares. The scent comes and goes with him.   

“Gilbert is dead, once more,” he says. “I’ve… I tried to be quick about it. As always.”

Good thing he never expects an answer, because he’s the only one present who knows the Gilbert and cares for his fate in any capacity. 

“I tried to keep Adella, but she went insane, no matter what I’ve told her. She wasn’t right from the beginning, I think, it wasn’t just the Moon. Just one more bad apple in the basket of filth that’s the Church.”

Sometimes he brings bottles of burning spirit and drinks them in silence. Sometimes he laughs, but rarely. 

“I’ve… Arianna was so broken and despaired. I’ve never done it before… the child - if you can call it that - was twisted and horrible. And it kept screaming, just like that other unborn abomination. I killed it for her… heh, shows what I know.  Might have shoved a blade between her ribs for all good it did… But now at least she‘s at peace. ...why do I keep trying, Alfred? It would be so much easier to let Gherman severe this dream… How do I know it’s - this, here, any of you - are even real?” 

The night lasts forever, but at least in Cainhurst it’s white and clean.       

“I don’t feel well. I think I’ve eaten something I shouldn’t… probably shouldn’t even touch the slimy thing, but the Doll said…”

Eternity opens before sightless eyes and it’s not that bad, one can get used to this neverending vigil. 

“Farewell, friend. I will try once more, and… this dream has to end at some point. It has to. It just isn’t fair.”

The the Hunter leaves for the last time and time seems to slow. 

Stars fade and the Moon crashes into the sea, and all is calm again.


	7. What if...

He was never one of these boys who climbed the tallest tree or jumped the highest fence they could find, because he never had anything to prove to anyone. As much as he was always willing to follow the rules of conduct set around him, he also enjoyed finding ways in which he could… as they say, slip under the more inconvenient ones. Nothing as untoward as breaking them, goodness no; his mother would never get up from her fainting couch and father would surely lose his magnificent moustache due to stress. An dealing with that was an inconvenience of the highest order.

Neither of them was a strict parent, but they surely could be a bit – cloying. Alfred raised himself to be an achiever mostly due to the burning need of getting out of the sphere of their love, before it suffocated him.

He often wished that he was born into a family that wasn’t so well off – then it would give him an excuse to work with his hands. Making of the things seemed like a satisfying thing, a good enough excuse to ignore the world around him. Hell, was he born a woman, he’d be allowed to pick out of dozens of crafts and no one would bat an eye!

He toyed for a while with the idea of priesthood, but his father – a staunch non-believer – shot it down so completely that Alfred didn’t have the will to even think about it anymore. Every time he did, the ringing in his ears awakened anew.

He had attended the College because that got him out of the estate. Even if his results were impressive, he didn’t have any intellectual aspirations - books and those who enthused about them bored him to tears. He could take part of intellectual discourse, but it always seemed like puppetry to him.

Charming smiles and poignant pauses, games of witty wordplay and all these little elements that came with existing within the higher society… all that was fairly engaging, of course, but, like a set of porcelain figurines: empty on the inside.

At least the bells had purpose in their hollowness, he often thought with a dose of humour. It wasn’t the fancy polish that mattered in their case.

Or firearms. Also hollow, but what purpose they’ve carried! Each small shell of a bullet – thin metal casing hiding sparks of potential. Yes, blades too, straight and to the point.

In the end there was only one path open to him that would allow him any sort of genuine engagement and detachment at the same time.

And that path led to Yharnam of all places.

 

**

 

“They say that a God resides in Yharnam.” Alfred’s travelling companion told him with a little crooked smile and they both chuckled at that. Well, Alfred chuckled while the man made a couple of soft gasping sounds that wouldn’t aggravate whatever was left of his lungs.

( _“It’s not contagious,” he’s told Alfred after the first bough of the wrenching coughs had eased and he could pull in enough air for words._

_A pale creature he was, with a pair of glassy brown eyes made to seem bigger by the overall slightness of his stature. Swaddled in a coat and scarf, even though the weather was surprisingly mild for early spring and inside of the train was rather stuffy. Maybe he shared Alfred’s age, maybe a bit over that, it was hard to tell from the tangle of dark hair and the smooth-shaven face. No more than thirty years, though._

_Curiously, he didn’t care to conceal the blood staining his handkerchief when it finally left his face – just as Alfred made no secret of looking at it. Their eyes met and the man gave him a pale smile. His teeth were tinged red. “You don’t have to fear, my ailment is mine alone.”_

_No wonder the compartment was almost empty when Alfred stumbled upon it, with only one passenger and his single carpetbag enjoying their solitude. Most people would be easily scared away by the sounds coming from the inside and their rather dark implication._

_Alfred moved himself into the compartment solely because he could not take another step._

_“Sounds like a nasty bout of consumption,” he stated with a wry curl of his lip. He had a feeling that the man wouldn’t appreciate cotton-coating. “My older brother has died of it.”_

_There were no condolences and Alfred didn’t hold it against the man. He wasn’t terribly torn about that particular loss; Samuel was a bastard of a boy from the moment he could walk and his demise could not come fast enough._

_“Nothing as easy as that, I’m afraid, Mr. Witherwoolf,” the man said. “Rather, a nasty little demon gnawing at me from the inside.”_

_“Fairly dramatic,” Alfred admitted. “And please, Alfred. At the sound of my last name I expect to see my father standing over me and disapproving.”_

_“Oh?” The man raised one dark eyebrow and reflected the wryness back, earning himself a higher notch on the scale of Alfred’s regard. “So we have that in common, at least. Gilbert, then, please.”_

_Alfred shook the extended hand.)_

Alfred didn’t believe in a God of any sort partly due to his upbringing, partly due to his inherent scepticism; it would be a tedious thing if his travelling companion did and had something to prove.

Would it warrant another change of the compartment, though?

His leg didn’t support that notion, but his head had just stopped aching after the previous company he had enjoyed (a short-tempered mother with her theatrically inclined newborn, two opinionated old crones, and a man of unknown persuasion set on shaking the train apart with the power of his snoring alone). Escaping that crowded carriage presented a challenge on its own.

Now, one source of pain he could deal with, two were very likely to turn him violent.

“Do you believe in rumours?” He asked, cautious.

“Personally?” The man raised an eyebrow at him. It seemed to be a tic of some sort. “As an agnostic, I’m rather disinclined to believe in any sort of higher power on word alone… But then again, if one is to believe rumours, doctors from Yharnam perform miracles on a daily basis.”

Alfred was never one to easily believe in fairy tales, he liked to think that he was more of a sceptic than his generally optimistic bearing would suggest. But he was a curious young man – and anyone who knew him would never deny that.

Unwillingly almost, he cast his eyes on the bloody kerchief.

“Do you expect to see a miracle, then?” He asked.

In retaliation, the man looked pointedly at his right leg - took in the awkward position, the metal brace, the black lacquered cane - before looking back at Alfred with dark, wet eyes and reflecting the question at him: “Do you?”

 

**

 

Alfred disliked travelling by train; the noise, the smells and the pretence of it were always tedious to him. Usually his upbringing and inherently pleasant countenance forced a smile on his lips that – while useful in avoiding various conflicts and gaining graces of more reasonable compatriots, it made his face feel stiff and his cheeks grow numb after a while.

He regretted being on that train entirely, but who could say no to his Lady Mother? The woman had perfected her glassy stares and regretful sniffs for decades, and used them with more skill than many men used firearms. Each of her carefully pained looks was like a shot to the heart from fifty paces.

And, since Alfred had already been well acquainted with being shot from fifty paces – well, he didn’t really care for a repeat of that joyful experience.

( _“They have healing waters in Yharnam,” mother had told him and Alfred did his best to avoid meeting her eyes. “Or so I’ve heard from Elizabeth. Her daughter had weak lungs since birth, she wasn’t expected to live past five… one month in that town healed her. Alfred, the Queen sends for doctors from Yharnam twice a year. There has to be something to it! Maybe someone in there can… help you.”_ )

It wasn’t that he didn’t want help – quite to the contrary, actually. To have the use of his leg back, to have his knee put back together into a fully working mechanism it used to be before a bullet shattered the joint into splinters – he’d give a lot for it. To be allowed to go back to his life, to his squadron, to the companions he was forced to leave in the middle of the war…

How many battlefields have they seen without him? How many have they painted with their blood since he was shipped back to England with no pardon, raging all the way like a caged tiger, but unable to do anything about it?

Lord Maximilian Witherwoolf involved altogether too many people into ruining his son’s life.

But… a God?

Alfred peered at his travelling companion, lost in thought.

The man was a pleasant enough company; he had a very unobtrusive presence and after swapping some customary small talk, seemed happy to return to the book he was reading before Alfred disturbed his peace.

The coughing fits came and went, each violent and obviously painful, but Gilbert dealt with them like Alfred dealt with his shattered knee - admirably well, to be honest.

There seemed to be very few things in the world a man couldn’t get used to – pain was not one of them.

The train rolled forward and the scenery behind the window, albeit nice, was also extremely boring in its staunch _Englishness_ and served as a poor distraction for someone who has already seen a bigger piece of the world. Disappointed, Alfred retreated into his mind, chasing for the fleeting memories of sea travel and companionship he had shared with the men serving first beside him then under him.

There was a time when the double-meaning made him blush and stutter in hapless indignation, but that was a long time ago, before he’d departed for the College. Two years spent in London in the company of young Greek philosophers either fixed a man or broke his mind completely.

He searched for these few memories that still brought him joy – but most of the last few years were drenched in so much blood that he could barely look upon them. Going back any further seemed like useless sentimentalism; only the weak-minded tried to hide amongst the recollections of their carefree childhood. And Alfred’s youthful years were quite carefree, indeed... all the way from the moment of his brother’s death.

 _Now, that’s a memory fit to raise one’s spirits_ , he thought and the note of dark amusement uncurled under his ribs.

Samuel was a demon in human skin and Alfred’s best memory of him was the view of his profile in the coffin. He still had the post mortem photograph he begged off of his mother before moving away to London, convincing her that his grief would surely kill him if he didn’t have something to sooth it.

Oh, the view was soothing. It sure soothed the basest pieces of his psyche where the most vicious hate and near-animalistic fear existed hand in hand for almost two decades now.

 _But enough of that,_ he thought, _too much of a good thing can spoil the best of men._

However, if not that, nor the moving landscape, then what other distraction was he to find for himself? The train pushed ahead and, for once, the vibrations don’t make him sleepy, but annoyed instead. He was filled with strange energy that had him gripping the head of his cane and twist it this and that way; he could barely stop his healthy leg from nervous jumps. Was he alone in the compartment, he’s risk stretching across the couch and getting some sleep, but he wasn’t alone.

Alfred was acutely reminded of it every time another fit overcame the frail man sitting across from him, bending his body forward like an invisible fist that slowly squeezed the life out of him. The man – _Gilbert_ , Alfred reminded himself – was quite graceful in his suffering, treating every bout with little care, immersed instead in his lecture. Alfred has seen people break down under much smaller strain as often as he’s seen those who kept the same admirable poise – and both of those were caused by one thing, and that was the inevitability of death.

A pity, really, the man was quite handsome even in his misery. His fragility was not off-putting, even though Alfred usually preferred to interact with sturdier people. With those that could handle his overbearing nature – and he was aware of being overbearing, thank you, he used it quite often as a low-key intimidating technique, because people were much more willing to forgive one that smothered them with kindness than someone who just smothered them. The kind of smothering made no difference to him, luckily. It was quite satisfying to have people on their toes whenever he smiled.

Those rare few that could take him as he was and push him back when he stepped too close – those were all precious people he tried to keep around.

 _I could probably bruise him with little trying,_ Alfred thought when his companion straightened himself out after another rough bout. _A wrist as thin as that, it’d break in my hand…_

 _Stop it,_ he chided himself instantly, hand flying up to wipe at his damp brow. _Stop it._

He pushed the beast down; back into the dark hole Samuel had dug up for him all these years ago. A parting gift from the dearest brother, that monster living under his skin.

 _Hah, let’s see that God from Yharnam trying to heal that,_ a thought appeared briefly.

He was getting restless; he should have a smoke or take a walk down the train. Maybe to the dining wagon? A tumbler of strong sherry should do wonders for his nerves. He should’ve taken the suitcase with him, instead of leaving all the baggage to be loaded independently, at least then he’d have his pipe at hand.

“Here.”

A slim gloved hand entered his vision, holding a neatly folded newspaper and Alfred startled, pulled out of his inner struggle. He looked to his companion – _Gilbert_ , he reminded himself – and again saw that pale shade of a smile, and wondered briefly if the man would appreciate being manhandled? Some men did, though very few were willing to admit it.

“You’re about to crawl out of your skin,” Gilbert said, cutting that train of thought short.

“Beg pardon?” Alfred did a double take, feeling colour sneaking across his cheeks.

Was he speaking his thoughts out loud?

He took the paper, because the hand holding it was beginning to tremble from strain.

“Apologies if I’ve misunderstood.” The man didn’t look like he believed he did. “But I’m… I’ve been a teacher and I know well the look on your face. A man of action, aren’t you, sir?”

“Well, rather,” Alfred admitted carefully.  

“I imagine that spending so much time still and with no distraction is hard on you.” The smile turned wistful. “I’ve dealt with enough young boys that could not sit still for an hour to recognise the signs with little trouble.”

Alfred returned the smile, because he was a charming man at heart, and looked to the paper, grateful. He had little interest in the politics of Lake District, but at least he could put his hands on something now. And just as he was about to thank his companion for the kindness, the hand in the black glove returned, this time with a pencil.

“The crossword hasn’t been done yet.”

“Thank you, good sir, this is splendid news, indeed.”

With a force of will he would not suspect himself of Alfred didn’t try to push the pencil through the man’s palm.

 

**

 

The train travel came to an end in Carlisle, where the passengers either dispersed among the streets or chose their next mode of transport. For Alfred and those who shared his destination it’s seemed to be a row of carriages neatly parked in front of the station; all black and stamped with Cainhurst’s coat of arms, and rigged to sturdy horses.  

The quality of the coaches didn’t surprise Alfred as much as their number. Three dozen at the least! He could hardly see the end of the line!

And they were filling up fast.

“Yharnam is a popular destination amongst certain circles,” Gilbert supplied, rightly reading his shocked expression.

“Certain circles, good man?” Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You mean, those that believe in miracles?”  

The man gave him another of these pale, undaunted smiles and Alfred had to admit that as a teacher, Gilbert had to be a truly frustrating one. The kind that doesn’t seem to be easily flustered.

He had decided that keeping the acquaintance of this new companion made more sense than going on alone – this way at least one of them knew where they’re going and what to expect. They didn’t talk much, but the feeling of pleasant companionship grew between them, as it sometimes happens when two men are pursuing one destination.

Gilbert seemed to share his inclination and followed without a word when Alfred stepped forward to hail the stagecoach for them.

In short order two strange occurrences followed this decision.

“Oy, ye! Gents! To tha’ Yharnam, ye two?”

The coachman hailed them.

Which, rightly, didn’t seem much out of order, since the cabmen in London did the same. What was unusual, however, was that when they were both inside of the coach, - Alfred’s luggage secured to the roof and Gilbert’s bag safely stored under the seat in case other passengers need their space – the coachman snapped the whip over the horses’ heads and left the station.

Alfred and his companion shared an incredulous look – there was enough space beside them to seat at least four more people and it was going completely wasted.

Still, not one to look the gifted horse in the mouth, Alfred shrugged the strangeness off, leaned against the cushy backrest and pushed his hat to cover his eyes, quite content to doze off for a bit.

 

**

 

Sleeping in a moving vehicle was a useful trick one had to learn in the army sooner or later. Either that or they grew drowsy enough to fall off their horse mid-charge and ended up with a broken neck.

Not to say that it was a comfortable kind of rest, not in the slightest. The springs under the coach were of good quality and the road under it well maintained, but the whole affair was still a shaky, creaking business requiring a powerful stretch of will to ignore.

Alfred’s sleep was far from peaceful and his dreams were strange. He dreamed of snow covered expanses of Russia he had only heard stories of. Just that the beauty they’ve spoke of was gone from the landscapes he was forced to traverse. Instead, the land turned savage and uninviting, sloping hills turned into steep walls of towering castles, all dark and desolate, and terrifying. He came across dogs or wolves, or some other mix of demons that hunted him down with no mercy. He wanted to fight them, but his hands were empty and he stumbled when a blood filled maw closed around his right knee…

He woke up to a gentle hand resting on his arm and a pair of big, wet eyes looking at him with concern from a curiously flushed face.

“I hope that you won’t think me impudent,” Gilbert spoke with difficulty, voice barely rising over the clamour of the coach. “But you’ve been gripped by a nasty dream, my friend, and I could not leave you to it.”

There was that kerchief again, - so it was another attack. There was blood on Gilbert’s teeth, and Alfred found that he wanted to taste it.

He gasped a _thank you, no, he’s grateful for the wake up, truly_ , and pulled himself together. He righted his coat and picked up the hat that fell to the floor. His hair was in disarray and he sacrificed a few moments trying to fix it with his fingers. All the time he staunchly refused to think neither on his strange dreams nor the bestial thought that came right after.

That might have not been the best idea, to lock himself in such a small space with someone so… Ah, if Gilbert was a woman or a child, Alfred could use that as a chain to bind the monster down, to bury it under the horror such desires brought to any sane individual.  He should’ve chosen more carefully. The last thing he – or his companion for that matter – needed was him having one of _his_ disturbing episodes.

 _The man is sick,_ he kept telling himself. _Dying, most probably; deserving a measure of respect for that alone._

 _He is kind,_ he told the beast. Kind men never raised their interest before. Men who could not, for whatever reason, fight back.

Oh, the dreaded plural!

Alfred shivered against himself and gripped the head of the cane until his finger joints creaked.

He was not mad. Not in this way. _Not like that._

“Here.”

 _You should not put your hands anywhere near a rabid animal_ – it would be a decent thing to do to warn the man, wouldn’t it? Hah.

This time he was being offered a bottle. It wasn’t not alcohol, Alfred knew right away, but he chuckled against his will at the label.

“Truly?” He looked at his companion. “Seems a bit _excessive_ , doesn’t it?”

For the first time Gilbert’s face turned red outside of a fit. “It works,” he said, effectively hiding the worst of the blush behind the book. “Whatever can be said about it, the ‘soothing’ part is no lie.”

And he would know, wouldn’t he? A man on the verge of spitting out his internal organs could be trusted at least in this case. Truth to be told, some soothing – albeit artificial – would be greatly appreciated.

“Well then, to Mrs. Winslow!” Alfred took a swing out of the bottle.

His dreams were no kinder than before, but any sort of internal struggle had to be better than what the voice living at the bottom of the well whispered to him when awake.

The syrup hit him quick and hard, and even dulled the pain in his leg enough to be easily ignored.

Alfred dreamed of snow and blood, as the wolves kept gnawing on his leg.

 

**

 

He woke in time to see the city gates and felt like someone dropped him into another world altogether. Like the Alice falling down the rabbit hole, Alfred tried to hide the astonishment at the views that passed his window.  A discreet glance at his companion told him that at least he wasn’t alone in his wonder.

He’s heard that Yharnam is a rich city, but what he saw overcame his expectations completely. The day was coming to an end and yet the streets were still full; hundreds of fashionably dressed people crowded to the restaurants and numerous stores. Even the rabble London was always full of here looked clean and decent, and Alfred startled when he realised that he can’t see one single beggar.

“Ya want see tha Cathedral Ward, lads,” the driver of the coach shouted over the clamour of the city life. “See them views.” His laughter was loud and a bit unhinged, but Alfred paid little attention to that.

The so-called Cathedral Ward stole his breath away.

The coach stopped and they dismounted, and another surprise awaited when the driver took the money Alfred handed him, picked a few coins out of the handful and returned the rest.

“The childr’n like them angly ones,” he laughed at the startled looks of his passengers. “Healin’ Church usuly pays fer the travel!”

A snap of the reins and the stagecoach pulled away.

The process of finding boarding and someone to carry their luggage was a blur Alfred couldn’t truly recall. He was quite grateful for befriending Gilbert, though, because he has been right, at least one of them had their head screwed on right. His mind was taken over by the strangeness of the new surroundings and probably still a bit muddled up by the syrup.

His leg, however, paid keen attention to everything and by the time a fresh-faced lad in white frock showed Alfred the door to his room, every step was a torture.

“There we go, Mr. Witherwoolf,” the lad said handing him the key. Everyone around seemed to be young and pretty, and dressed in the same white/grey frock and a head-dress. Like in a monastery. “You’ll find nightclothes in the dresser, if you need them. Late tea is served until nine and breakfast starts at seven. If you need assistance of any kind, there’s a bell by the bed you can use.”

Alfred didn’t know at which point he’d lost Gilbert – maybe by the reception? Maybe in the spider web of the halls? He couldn’t quite recall.

“My companion,” he said to the lad. “I was with an, eh, a friend…”

“All guests are located in different Wards depending on the severity of their condition,” the boy answered with an apologetic smile. “The best bet is to ask at the reception; if your friend is in a state fit to receive guests, you will be informed of where to find him, sir.”

“And if he isn’t?” The bloody kerchief came to mind.

Another apologetic smile. “Then you will be informed about that, too.”

That seemed to be the end of it. The lad bowed his head, wished him good night, and left.

Alfred entered his room and prepared for bed. His luggage was already there, the bed was made and the room was warm even though there was no fireplace in sight. Come to think of it, there had been precious little smoke he could see over the city and the buildings were all clean; the pervasive layer of soot covering every inch of London was absent in Yharnam. How? Were they using the famed northern invention of thermal waters to heat their homes?

A strange city, indeed.

The Clinic was easily one of the most luxurious places he’s ever been to – there was a room with a bath and running _warm_ water connected to the bedroom, everything was decorated within an inch of its life, and the single large window opened to a view of a park of some sort: all ancient pine trees and beds of colourful flowers. People traversed the paved paths either on their own two feet or are pushed in the wheelchairs by the white-frocked personnel. It all looked peaceful and – clean.

But his leg was trying to murder him and the brace was digging painfully into his thigh, so Alfred cut his musings short. He washed, redressed and gratefully crawled under the herb-scented sheets.

 

**

 

In his dreams he walked the twisting halls of the hospice like he knew them all by memory. There were hundreds of doors, all of them closed, all of them he was sure that he doesn’t want to open. Screams echoed from behind some; howls of pain and fear. Muted prayers and begging smothered into unrecognisable mewling.

He put his ear to one set of ornate doors and heard a clang of glass, metal tools being shifted on metal trays… other than that, nothing.

It terrified him more than anything else in this nightmare and he ran. The halls twisted and turned, holding him captive; turning darker the further he went.

Until the corridor closed with a marble arch and a gate of bent iron. Snow white statues knelt in prayer on both sides of it and he could _feel_ their eyes on him.

He woke up – or thought he did – wet with sweat and gasping for breath. His bad leg was cramped to hell, so much that straightening it out brought tears to his eyes.

Frozen to the bone, Alfred huddled under the covers, eying the bell and wondering how much his dignity is worth these days – how much less would it be if he rang for a nurse only so he wouldn’t have to be alone?

He didn’t ring, but the feeling of being watched didn’t leave him until morning.

 

**

 

In the morning he donned a fresh suit, ordered his hair into the customary way and shaved. It made him feel more human… more like himself, in any case.

A brisk knock on his door revealed a young girl that came to take his laundry and tidy up the premises. From her Alfred learned how to go about finding food and that he was still charming enough to make a pretty lass blush even after a night of ill-sleep.

That raised his spirits considerably.

His first meeting with a medical professional was set for ten, so with still two hours to use as he wished, he located the cafeteria and, better yet, located his lost companion within it. After acquiring a tray with rather sumptuous looking breakfast, Alfred took a seat across from the man… and frowned.

Gilbert didn’t look any better than he felt, which was a sort of an achievement in itself. Maybe it was the white ensemble the man was wearing today; it did even less favours to his already pale countenance that the yesterday’s black attire.

Actually, the clothes seemed awfully close in cut to the frocks of the nurses milling around; only the soft-looking, ashen house-robe was a curious addition.

“Bad night,” Gilbert said in answer to Alfred’s pointed look. “It must be the new place; I’m unused to sleeping in such warmth.”

The sleeves of the robe slid down as he ate, baring the wrists, and it took Alfred a moment to realise that it’s the first time he sees the man’s hands out of the gloves. They seemed terribly fragile - skin pale and thin-looking, blue lines of the veins like tiny cracks in fine china, fingers slim and long, and tinged blue at the tips.

It could be ink stains, the man admitted to being learned, or the first handshake of Death.

“Did you try the syrup?” Alfred asked, spooning hot porridge into his mouth.

Opposite him, Gilbert still nibbled on the same jammy scone. “The nurse took it away as soon as she saw the label.” He said with a quirk of his lips. “She said it did me more harm than good, actually.”

“Had she given you something else for the pain?”

“No. But since my treatments start today there was probably little need for it.”

“Treatments?” Ah, so that explained the strange garb.

Conversation turned from that point to the Clinic and their impressions of it. Gilbert seemed happy with the place, although the rich environment cowed him a little. Alfred wondered briefly how much did it actually cost to receive treatment in Yharnam – he had not been involved in setting up of his own ‘holiday’, it was entirely his mother’s undertaking. He didn’t care for specifics, at the time, but his companion was a working man, a teacher – used to be, at least. His last name was common and he certainly didn’t look like he came from the money.

How much was he sacrificing to have this chance?

Ah, he was mingling below his station without any proper introductions being made! His mother would faint!

Alfred had to stifle a laughter this realisation brought.

Too soon their breakfast was interrupted, however, by another of the young attendants who implored Gilbert to follow her, as his treatments were about to start.

Alfred nodded his goodbyes, they’ve swapped their room numbers and Gilbert left, escorted by one of the innumerable pretty smiling girls.

 

**

 

The doctor assessing his knee, surprisingly, wasn’t young and pretty. Instead, he was an older gentleman of dignified disposition, with a kind and down to earth manner that dispersed any doubts that Alfred might have had about the quality of medical service provided by the Healing Church. Dressed in white and ash grey, he was making a fine impression of some ancient philosopher. He hummed and muttered, and scribbled in a leather-bound notebook.

“All of it makes sense.” He said at length before taking his glasses off and motioning to the orderly waiting on the side. “Now, let us see what these country bumpkins did to your poor leg.”

Alfred didn’t look at the ruin left of once fully functional limb, he didn’t have to. The scars, the disfiguration, the patches of discoloured skin where the gangrene ate at the flesh – He had it all memorised. He barely felt when the soft, careful hands touched him, since most of the mess was numb. And how about that for logic – to make something numb on the outside, but perfectly capable of registering pain on the inside?

“Ah, yes, yes, this is a fine mess,” the doctor muttered sadly and Alfred didn’t expect to hear anything else. “Damaged nerves and the knee cap is in splinters. Hum, hum.” Yes, that he also knew.

Truth to be told, he’s had no high hopes coming to Yharnam - maybe only if they knew of the way to dull the pain a bit. He could deal with being crippled, really, but the pain was slowly becoming too much to stand…

“Well, then,” the doctor said after returning to his desk. “I should give it three weeks, no more, to sort you out, Mister Witherwoolf. Use that nice cane while you can, because soon you’ll have no need for it.”

This, however, was rather unexpected.

 

**

 

The ‘treatments’ started right away and weren’t like he expected. He was assigned a personal nurse and a treatment room that he was expected to visit two times a day for the next three weeks. He didn’t protest or ask any further questions.

Alfred’s head still spun after the optimistic prognosis the old doctor gave him. He tried to be sceptical, but a spark of hope flared to life in his chest, defiant against his attempts to smother it. Three weeks and he will put the cane away? What a load of lies, that was. How were they supposed to achieve it here, in the sticks, when the best surgeons London had to offer could do little else than to spread their hands helplessly and offer to amputate?

A hideous lie to con the weakminded, it was all this was! He believed neither in miracles nor in whatever God they had in this place!

But, still… If only the pain went away. If only they’d manage this much...

A nurse led him along a new path, towards the back of the hospice, where a cluster of whitewashed buildings towered over the town. On the way Alfred observed people crowding around, noting their various ailments. A man on a wheelchair, swathed in bandages – and still his horribly burned skin peeked through the gaps in between. A young woman walked by his side holding his hand and there was no doubt on her face, just unbreakable resolve.

He spotted a father carrying a lifeless child in his arms. A blind woman led by the hand by a man twice her age, probably her father. Many coughing individuals, with handkerchiefs permanently stuck to their faces. A young lass disfigured by some cancerous growth taking half of her face. Many were on crutches and Alfred straightened his back and steadied his step half-consciously whenever he passed one.

He was not like the people here, he did not belong…

He had half of a thought to turn back and retreat, to return to London where that spark of hope could be doused in liquor and pipe smoke. Maybe he should take a page out of his newest friend’s book and invest in some soothing syrup for himself?

But before Alfred could make his decision cool air of the spacious foyer surrounded him and before he realised, he was being ordered to undress down to his smalls and laid down on a smooth table – surface cold enough to make him shiver. A matronly orderly appeared by his side almost making him jump – she had to put a calming hand on his shoulder to keep him from leaping up in embarrassment.

“Steady, love,” she smiled to him and Alfred was struck with a sudden remembrance of his most beloved nurse. “We’ll sort you right out.”

Soon enough a dainty syringe pumped a dose of pale liquid into his vein and the nerves left him completely. Alfred relaxed, against himself, and didn’t even think to fight the medic who went to work on his leg. The pain that any sort of handling usually brought has been reduced to a vague tingle on the edges of his awareness, barely worth any attention.

The nurse stayed by his side and her soft hand resting on his shoulder was an anchor for Alfred’s wandering mind. She talked to him, but her words echoed inside of his skull like a whisper in a cathedral, turning meaningless.  The ceiling of the room took most of his attention: wood carved in the most fantastic shapes and designs trapped his sight and he could not help, but follow each swirl and arch with his eyes.

It was hard to say how much time have passed before the massage ended and Alfred was being coerced to sit up and move to a metal tub waiting in the corner of the room. Warm water engulfed him almost up to his collarbones. It didn’t come to him to be concerned about the sudden lack of clothes. The nurse propped his head on a soft towel and stroked the fringe out of his eyes, and Alfred was acutely reminded of the few good moments from his childhood.

Thus comforted, he allowed sleep to claim him.

 

**

 

For the rest of the day Alfred remained in a state of half-awareness. Miss Florence, his assigned nurse, led him like a child from his room to the cafeteria, to the garden, to the treatment room, back to bed. He didn’t remember much of the time between the injections and the baths, and a vague feeling that he should be bothered by it.

That night he slept like a rock and his leg didn’t bother him until morning.

 

**

 

As the days went by these states lessened, however, and with each treatment Alfred was more lucid. The injections relaxed him like a tumbler of good brandy, but he was more or less aware and not prone to making a fool out of himself.

He chatted with the medic who worked on his leg and with Mrs Lawrence, the older nurse. By the end of the week he’s managed to charm Miss Florence into letting him wander on his own for a while between treatments and he used that time to scout the premises, so to speak, and  visit the town for as long as his decreasingly bothersome leg allowed.      

During one of these short sightseeing trips, a sudden realisation struck him. From the moment his foot stepped on the Yharnam’s soil, Alfred felt unsettled for some reason. And that reason became clear the longer he traversed the paved streets and numerous plazas.

The city was clean. It was a maze of streets that in any other town would have grown filthy and unfriendly a long time ago. But not Yharnam; there was no raw sewage flowing alongside the pavements, no trash littering the streets. The refuse left after the horses was tidied up as soon as it appeared, and it all seemed barely possible. It didn’t feel quite real, even.

Yharnam reminded him of a dollhouse.

Alfred had a short amusing idea of some cosmic little girl peering at them all from her place above the clouds, moving them around like they were her praised dolls, rearranging furniture to her whims. A ridiculous idea, really, but it was entertaining enough to share with his new friend.

“It does, doesn’t it?,” Gilbert agreed with him. “Either that or a clock, don’t you think? Some masterfully arranged mechanism. “

Gilbert, for his part, looked worse and worse with every passing day. Their meetings were short, mostly during lunch and early dinner, due to their respective treatment times not aligning perfectly. Alfred treasured these moments of interaction and dreaded them in equal measure.

Seeing the man served to remind him that he was, indeed, still in the waking world and the progress on his leg was a reality. At the same time, every time he caught a glance of these thin wrists, the beast under his skin stirred. Especially since the grey robe seemed to grow in size the more the man hunched, making him look younger and more fragile than a gentleman in his thirties had any right to be.

“I feel better, honestly.” Every time Alfred expressed his concern at the darkening shadows under his eyes or the lack of appetite, Gilbert reassured him with that same patient smile of his; Alfred wanted to twist his arm until it pops out of the joint every time it was directed at him. “I can breathe much easier and the fits come less often every day. It’s just that my nights… I’m sleeping rather poorly.”

Alfred pitied him, especially since his own problems in that area ceased to exist almost completely. It could be because of the mysterious pale liquid in the syringes, or something in the water he was soaking in afterwards, but his sleep was hard and undisturbed for the last week and he wasn’t aware how much he’s missed being rested.

It was easier to keep his more destructive urges under wraps.  

Other than that he amused himself with long walks through the sprawling park that surrounded the Ward, through the pathways hugged by the patches of pale cream flowers in full bloom, under the ancient pies. Once, standing on one of the paved terraces he spotted a shimmer of the lake in the distance and decided that, once his curation has ended, he’ll go fishing.

His leg was getting better and with every day a bit of Alfred’s scepticism crumbled into dust. He still wasn’t fully convinced that the whole miracle process will bring his limb back to full health, but now at least he was willing to wait and see. That’s what his mother begged him to do in her last letter - he penned his reply shortly, not wanting to betray even a bit of enthusiasm, but the thought of disappointing her also played its role in his decision. Alfred was nothing, if not a dutiful, loving son.

Otherwise the days at the resort were languid and peaceful, and Alfred acquired a habit of spending his evenings on a bench of one of the gardens, enjoying the breeze and people-watching. It wasn’t unusual that after a while in one place one started to recognise the faces of others, who also visited it regularly. Also, being a bit sharper than was the norm, it was not hard to become aware of certain - _peculiarities -_ of one’s surroundings.

 

**

 

The old woman came to the garden every morning

She had to be ancient; her face was wrinkled like old parchment and her body skeleton-thin. She could be hideous, but there was something about her that dispersed that notion; some sort of light shone from her posture, kindness of the kind Alfred haven’t often seen permeated from her expression. There was something wrong with her legs, but he could not state what it was, since she was always swathed in blankets and her clothes were spacious and very robe-like.

She sat on a wheelchair pushed by a young woman that was her exact opposite. Young, beautiful and tall. Alfred has never seen a girl this tall, she easily had at least an inch on him - and he already had to look down during most of his conversations. A silent beauty, she was, solemn in her devotion to the old woman.

The woman wasn't a patient, Alfred decided after seeing how she’s treated by the orderlies and the nurses milling around the Ward. Like she was some sort of a great aunt to them all, they’ve always made time to stop and greet her with utmost respect, and she in turn never spared them a kind word.

Was she related to the owner of this place? Was she a member of the higher hierarchy of this whole Church?

“Oh, Mother Agatha,” Miss Florence said when he asked her about it. The girl’s face bloomed with a smile. “She’s a saint.”

Since no other explanation followed, Alfred changed the subject.

But then, there was also that man…

Alfred stumbled upon him once as he was leaving the cafeteria to have his customary walk. He saw the giant crossing the main foyer in a long, decisive stride and felt his knees soften to the point he had to sit down on a nearby bench. Alfred has seen some big men in his life, but this was just plain ridiculous.

“You mean Father Gascoigne?” Miss Florence chuckled at his astonishment. “He’s a cleric of the Healing Church and his wife works at the clinic. I’m not surprised that you’re so shocked, sir, he is rather… impressive, isn’t he? But he’s a gentle man at heart, a true saint.”

A priest, huh? A priest able to snap a horse’s neck with a fist.

“This place seems to breed giants,” Gilbert admitted when they’ve chanced a meeting in the garden. “The lady doctor that assigned my schedule is quite a bit taller than you.”

“Oh dear,” Alfred jokingly pretended to be brought down by the news. “Way to make a chap feel rather insignificant, is it? To be surrounded by giants and saints...”

“Saints?” Gilbert looked up at that.

“Ah yes, Miss Florence seems to perceive every good soul as a saint of some sort,” Alfred said. “Hence I, who can’t call myself anything more than decent, feel a bit low about myself.”

“It has to be a local thing, then. My, ah, assistant calls the head of the treatment ward a saint, too.”

Gilbert’s ‘assistant’ was a rather quiet, burly lad that for a while now Alfred intended to ask if he’s interested in arm wrestling. He looked like a challenge and a good one at that. And Alfred needed a challenge to direct his attention at if the quiet scholar in his acquaintance was going to leave Yharnam unscathed.

A pale hand landed on his arm and Gilbert looked at him with that unflinching softness. “I’m glad your mood has improved,” he said. “Decent or no, this place serves you well.”

Ah, touched by a hand of a working man, father would have a fit!

Alfred carefully folded his own fingers over that hand and squeezed. Maybe a bit too tightly, but that was just a habit, after all, he was used to stronger handshakes.

“I’m doubly glad that your health improves, too, dear Gilbert,” he smiled charmingly at the man. “The last thing I’d wish to experience is the loss of your witt…”

“Your name is Gilbert?” A young voice unexpectedly cut in.

They’ve turned to see a little girl standing by their bench, a little angel in a white dress with the sweetest little face and a big white ribbon adorning her flaxen hair. No more than seven years of age, Alfred estimated her to be, and, as every child, she was forward and mannerless as she stepped up to Gilbert to peer closely at him.

“Are you the Gilbert?” She asked the startled man.

Before he had any chance of answering, another young lady appeared, this one a few years older, but obviously related. The same angelic features were pulled with worry, but her posture betrayed no fear of strangers.

“Lottie, you can't bother every Gilbert that comes to Yharnam!” The girl scolded her younger sister. “Remember what mother said?”

Lottie puffed her cheeks and pouted. “But he looks very bad.” She stated, pointing at the man’s face.

“Lottie!”

“Are you well, Gilbert, sir?” Lottie stepped even closer and reached up to frame Gilbert’s face with her hands. Her tiny eyebrows pulled together in worry as she asked. ”Aren’t they taking proper care of you? Uncle will be unhappy… I know, I will get Miss Iosefka to have a look at you!”

“Lottie, you can’t…” The older sister rushed in to pull her away, but stopped short of the mark when her eyes fell on the sick man. “Oh, I understand. Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt.”

Gilbert, for his part, looked like a deer confronted with a pack of hunting dogs and Alfred - conveniently ignored so far by both of his assailants, - did his level best to keep the corners of his lips from adventuring to meet his ears. Mad chuckles rose in his chest, but he pushed them down with a firm hand, happy for now to watch the spectacle unfold.

“Dearheart,” Gilbert finally got some air into his lungs and a grip on his embarrassment. “I assure you, I’m fine… and rather worried that I can't see your nurse anywhere?”

His gentle admonishment, however, was carelessly waved away. “We have no nurse,” Lottie laughed. “We live here, silly, we don't need a nurse in our own home.” She stomped a foot in a tiny white slipper. “Oh, I wish you were the Gilbert! You seem awful nice, sir, I would like you to live here too!”

“My dear…”

“But first, you have to be healed! Come, Laura, we have to tell Auntie!”

“Lottie, stop running!”

Left alone, both men looked at each other, not sure of the whole interaction took place at all, speechless - that is until Alfred couldn't hold himself back anymore and erupted into a thunderous laughter.

Gilbert hid his face in both hands and all but whimpered.“Please, say nothing of this.”

“Dearheart,” Alfred gasped for air. “I wouldn’t dare.”

And then he laughed some more.

 

**

 

That evening, however, his treatment didn’t go as well. Maybe it was a punishment for making fun of his companion, maybe he wasn’t careful in his attentions enough. But from the moment sleep claimed him in the bath, he regretted closing his eyes.

An old horror visited him this time, one he knew well and yet still he feared.

Samuel.

His brother was dead for years now and the sane portion of his mind was aware of that fact, but there was another part of him - the one that served as a burial ground for all his fears and doubts, where terror grew untended. And there was no bigger terror than the one a child feels when confronted with a monster that no one else can see.

Samuel was a snake in the grass, a beast of the worst caliber - because he could pretend to be a human being with such ease. He could be sweet and charming, and trustworthy from the youngest age, enough that no one ever thought to suspect him of ill will. Well, no one important, anyway. Mother and father were either fooled or willingly blind, but the nurses and servants were terrified of the little viper. As the first child, and a boy at that, Samuel was nearly revered by their parents, he could do no wrong and his each deed was born out of the purest of intentions.

And Alfred was clumsy child, if anything. An unfortunate runt that simply  liked to wear his sleeves long and his collars up.  

He wondered sometimes what would become of him if his brother hasn’t died at the age of sixteen. If he didn’t catch the illness from one of the maids he used to… dally with. Knowing his brother and knowing what he had of Betty, Alfred could almost bet that the girl caught the sickness just to pass it on to his brother out of sheer spite. If that was the case, he was somewhat jealous of the idea - so many nights he’d spent dreaming up ways to get rid of Samuel in a suitably painful manner and tuberculosis never came to his mind. A pity.

What would happen to him if it didn’t happen? His dreams were all too quick to answer that question.

“Easy, dear, easy,” Mrs Lawrence spoke to him when he woke up gasping from the grip of a nightmare. Her soft hands smoothed his hair; it did little to calm his pulse, but Alfred was thankful for her presence anyway. “There, there, it was just a bad dream, love. Come now, time to get up and get some nice dinner. I’ve heard that the cooks are serving a roast today, isn't that nice?”  

Yes, it was, Alfred liked roasted meat.

But today he didn't have the appetite for it.

 

**

 

His night was no better. Horrors from his childhood kept flashing on repeat in front of his eyes, waking him every hour or so, and when he had finally managed to fight them off, they’ve turned into something else. Another freak show, but this time he was a character in someone else’s story; an orphaned boy taken in by the holy men that hid knives in their sleeves. Bloodshed and pain surrounded his life, and when the morning finally came Alfred left his bed with his stomach unsettled and nerves tight as strings.

He hasn’t seen Gilbert that day. Nor the next.

His treatments took a turn for the worse, because the dreams would not let him go, no matter how hard he tried to stay awake in the tub.

“It happens sometimes, dear,” Mrs Lawrence kept assuring him as she filled the syringe with the mysterious pale liquid. “People come here with a lot of stress hidden under their skin, side effect of their ailments, and oftentimes it comes up to the surface unwanted. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

He could finally understand Gilbert and his worsening condition, because soon enough the lack of sleep was turning his own face ashen and his eyes dark. The beast stirred under his skin and its whispers grew louder, more insistent. Alfred stopped searching for his companion - he could not trust himself anymore with him.

He tried to keep the man safe from himself and it never came to him that he may not be the only monster within the bright, clean walls of Yharnam.

 

**

 

The night was a bad one again. Alfred emerged from the dream gasping for breath like he’d just ran a mile without stopping. His legs were tangled in the sheets, the bad one ached like an open wound and his heart was attempting to beat its way out of his chest. He reached out towards the bedside table, on instinct, searching for the matches to light the lamp. Although the night was bright with full moon and the room was illuminated by a soft, pale glow falling in through the high window. It was bright enough to see a shape hunched in the legs of the bed.

Alfred stilled, hand outstretched, blinking furiously to disperse any leftover visions from his eyes. Was he dreaming still? The door was closed, the room undisturbed, who…

A moment or two later, when his sight adjusted to the gloom, he recognised the ashen robe and the shape of the hunched shoulders.

“Gilbert..?” He mumbled, tongue stiff in his dry mouth.

In reaction, the figure hunched even more, wound two thin arms around itself and whimpered in pain.

Alfred was up and sitting before the sound had a chance to end. His feet stung at the coolness of the floor and the sensation assured him that he’s awake, as he reached for his own robe - which was either habitual decency or an attempt at stalling. The sweat at the back of his neck cooled, turning sticky and unpleasant, gluing the short tangled hair to his nape.

“Gilbert, are you alright?” He asked, when he was sure that his voice won’t shake. He should ask: what are you doing here? How did you get into the room? Does your nurse know? But he didn’t.

What was the point if the man was looking at Alfred without seeing him?

His robe was untied, his shirt undone halfway down the chest, as if clawed apart - the skin underneath was scratched, deep groves in sets of four. Bathed in moonlight, the world seemed ridiculously desaturated, and so the scratches appeared black - as did the man’s nails.  

“This city is cursed…” Gilbert whispered.

Alfred startled when the unseeing eyes lifted to his face and an expression of terror pulled at the creased skin around them.

“I feel… I feel like I’m splitting apart…” Thin hands lifted, wrists peppered with small dark dots, one of them still halfway bandaged. Injections? Treatments? “Don’t you feel this?” Bloody fingers pulled at the tangled hair. “It’s like… snakes in the back of your head… oh God...”

“No, I…” Alfred was lost for words, because the man was clearly distraught and speaking nonsense, and also because for him that nonsense made sense. He was always split down the middle, he grew over that split a long time ago. Still, he wasn't insane enough to admit it to anyone. “Come now, you’re speaking nonsense!” He rasped harshly. “You’re still asleep!”

There was the bell on the wall, he could use it and call someone to take the man away. He was surely just sleepwalking, caught in the grip of some morbid vision, senseless.

Alfred did a step towards it and Gilbert curled up, away from him, hiding his face like a frightened child. “I don’t want to die like that,” he whimpered. “This city will make me.... I want to die human…”

“Get a grip on yourself, man!” Alfred pulled on the bell and grasped the shivering man by the shoulders, looking him in the face and trying to project some sort of authority. He was good at authority, he was an officer, for Godssake… but it all went to Hell when he pulled Gilbert face-first to the light and the eyes he looked in reflected the moon at him, like two mirrors.

He pulled back and stumbled on his bad leg, unsure of what he just saw, mouth dry. It couldn’t be. Human eyes didn’t...

“I want to leave… this place is not good… Ah.” Gilbert’s hands fell from his head and he stared at them with bloodshot eyes that reflected light in an animal fashion. “I can’t… I can't feel my...”

Then he hunched over and started coughing up blood. Alfred, frozen to the spot, flinched at the amount of it. One mouthful. Two. Three. Gilbert - or whatever it was that wore his skin - slid bonelessly to the floor, kneeling in the mess, and continued to retch.

“Why… why me… again…” he whimpered in between the fits, voice turning less human by the second.

Alfred made a step back.

“Help… me…please...”

Another.

This was a dream. This couldn’t be happening. This was all...

Why no one was reacting to the bell yet?! What was he to do? The man was bleeding out on his floor, scratching at himself with claw-like fingers, begging to be spared… what? Was he to ease his suffering?

 _“It’s always death with you, isn’t it, dear Alfred?_ ”

The air stilled, the time has stopped.

The door burst open and a woman appeared in it. At least half a head taller than Alfred, she had to bow to cross the threshold. She paid him no mind - as if he wasn’t there, even though her sleeve briefly caught on his elbow when as she strode to the bed, her step hard. She kneeled on the floor, mindless of the blood soaking her white dress. Gilbert looked like a child next to her, small and miserable when she laid a hand on his head to keep it close to the floor, easing the blood flow.

“Ah, I understand now,” she whispered, but Alfred heard her as if she was speaking right into his ear - and at the same time her voice came to him strange, distorted and wavering. As if they were underwater. “You could’ve not left it alone… Oh my Lord, will you ever stop dreaming?”  

Then she turned and looked at Alfred and the world wavered on its legs. Her eyes looked through him, like he was made of glass, and they didn't seem to like what they saw on the other side. They were blue and bottomless, and his knees turned to jelly.

“I will take him to the Chapel,” she said and the air in the room thinned, making it hard to breathe. “It’s the only place that can help him now. You can come as well,” her expression turned bitter. “Who am I to stop my Lord from wanting?”

Her eyes swallowed the world.

 

**

 

Alfred wakes up wheezing and flailing like a drowning man. His leg hurts, but he doesn’t grace it with an ounce of attention as he scrambles across the bed to peer down at the floor. He expects to see a puddle of blood - even as he knows that it was just a dream, that he’s just paranoid.

The blood is there, a black pool stretching from the edge of the bed halfway across the room.

He scrambles away from it even quicker, heart coming up to his throat; his feet land on the floor and he rushes to the door…

But there is no door.

His heart attempts to suffocate him before he swallows it forcibly down. With trembling wingers he touches the wall - it’s smooth and solid, there’s nothing that would signal that there was an exit on it. He doesn't want to turn around, he knows the rules of nightmares, knows them all too well, and the blood on the floor terrifies him more than anything he’s ever seen.

_“This is new, you were never afraid of blood.”_

He turns - there’s nothing left of the room, apart from the window that’s now ten times bigger - and the Moon that grew accordingly. Alfred stands in the flood of silver light, trying to peer through it to see the owner of the voice. The air smells sweet, like almond cakes and chrysanthemums, he can almost taste it.

“What happened to him?” He asks, the words choked up and fragile. “Where is he?”

He needs to know that it was all a dream. That a human can’t… turn into… something else. His sanity depends on it! It’s one thing to hide a monster under his skin, and completely another to have it burst free...

“ _Dear Gilbert?_ ” The name comes to him from all directions, whispered by dozen of voices, all layering on each other to sound legible, but the leftover dissonance makes something in Alfred’s head hurt.

But not as much as the hand that touches him right after - fingers slide into his sweaty hair and grip tight, and his vision splits in two, three, five…

 

_Gilbert, sitting alone in a little dingy room as the sun sets outside._

**_They lay him on the altar, a clean marble slate under a holy figure made out of a dozen faceless statues. He’s screaming and writhing in pain and terror..._ **

_Gilbert, curled in a chair, wrecked by cough and spitting blood._

**_...arched painfully as a pale hand with black fingers digs into his chest and pulls out a writhing mass of something that looks like snakes, but also like a deformed sea creature hungry for flesh..._ **

_Gilbert, begging for help as his skin splits and matted fur bursts out from underneath._

**_...screaming intelligible words as the hissing brambles are torn out of him and cast aside..._ **

_“I can even die human,” Gilbert says to the Hunter at his window._

**_“I’m sorry.” The pale man - thing - God - says over the gasping form. “You will despise me, but I can live with that.”_ **

_A malformed, hunched beast dying under a merciful blade._

_And dying._

_And dying._

_And dying._

_Always dying._

**_“Come now, dear, ” the - God - says. “Breathe for me.”_ **

_Blood._

**_Blood._ **

(The air shimmers and Alfred sees - undescribable… unfathomable… _thing…_ pale like dead flesh and too many limbs…

A hand falls over his eyes and a roughly accented voice growls into his ear, “Don’t look now, boy, or madness will claim you.”

 _Madness_ , he thinks hysterically.

He is already mad.)

_“You’ve been mad from the first time I met you, dear Alfred. They just made you unable to see it.”_

Now he sees. There’s an infinite number of possibilities, as many realities as there’s Gods to dream them up, and in every single one he’s born in happiness and living in pain. In every single one his path leads to steel and gunpowder, and in every single one he tries to wash his sins away with blood. And no matter how many paths he chooses, no matter where they lead - he always ends up in the same place.

At the same conclusion.

 _“It’s always death with you, isn’t it?”_ The God of Yharnam asks.

Alfred feels something in his head snap and the world wavers in front of his eyes to form a pale body with black-tipped hands. The God looks human, _human-enough_ , though nothing like his Saints - he’s small, thin, washed out of colour like old linens. His skin is thin enough to show blue veins, and his lovely face is marred by a nasty scar.

The eyes are off-colour. One is yellow.

The beast in Alfred roars to life, but the God dispatches it as easy as the snake tangle that he removed from Gilbert’s chest - he just snaps his jaws and devours it whole. It’s so easy now that the struggle Alfred has been living his entire life seems foolish. After all, this being stronger than a simple beast could ever be.

“Is he… dead?” He asks, because both visions ended up with blood.

(He killed that man once, he thinks. A mercy kill, it had to be done. He killed them both. )

“ _He’s awake,”_ the God answers plainly. “ _He is safe in my own dream now, with all my Saints._ ” And adds. “ _You can be too, if you wish.”_  

The proposal is given to him in an off-hand manner that makes him confused. He didn't think it would be this easy.

“ _I tried to conduct your fate once, to lead you to safety. And every time you’ve slipped out of my hands and chose death. This time I won't ask you to follow; either way you choose, you'll be as happy as I can make you._ ”

Happy? There was no time when he was happy. (Apart from… but that was a dream. A brief flight of fancy that ended up with his bones shattered on the pavement and his heart stolen by a Hunter in black.)

“You put a lot of faith in my ability to chose right. Did everyone get that chance?” He asks, amusement curling his lips. “Even dear Gilbert?”

The God dismisses the notion without a pause. _“Of course he didn’t, I love him._ ” As if that explained everything. Alfred's smile dies. _“I need him here, if this dream is ever going to last.”_  

Not only that dies. The God moves and suddenly he’s in front of Alfred, off-coloured eyes look at him with a bit of curiosity and a lot of fondness he can’t quite place. He wants to kiss his mouth.

(In one life he did and he was bad at it.)

He wants to bite through it to the other side.

An infinite lifetimes of bloodthirst wage a war in him with the exact same years of thoughtless worship. Then the God puts his hands on his face and everything turns silent. “ _My kind is not much unlike yours,_ ” he says. “ _At some point we all desire children, we all want mates._ ” Black-tinge fingers slip into Alfred’s hair and turn his bones into liquid.

Ah, so that’s it. There’s no orphans on the streets of Yharnam - they’re all in the Church. A literal brood standing in for the real thing. So, then a mate…?

 _“I need a sane one,_ ” the God answers his thoughts in a dozen of voices, each softer than the previous one. _“Untainted by madness, unmarred by the knowledge... unable to bear me offspring.”_  

A wailing of a child echoes in the space around them before it’s mercilessly cut off.

“Why not one of your... kind?” It just doesn't sit well with him, the thought of someone else…

The God smiles and there’s more teeth in that smile than there is stars in the sky.

“ _They come here, sometimes. They never leave._ ” The world darkens and the Moon starts to bleed in the distance. “ _This is my dream and I will not share it with any other.”_

Bones of giants rise in the distance, enormous in size, terrifying in shape. Alfred feels the blood vessels in his eyes snapping as he looks at them, before his face is pulled down, his gaze directed to the off-coloured eyes that swallow the world.

“What do you want, dear Alfred?” The God asks.

Alfred falters. He knows. He doesn’t. He’s ashamed and scared. He has carried this thing inside of him through what feels like lifetimes; that something that makes him unsuitable to be an anchor for this dream. Unlike dear Gilbert with his smiles and understanding, mild-mannered reasonable attitude and wrists fragile like bird’s bones.

Alfred is nothing like it. Never was. Never will be.

“I want to pull you apart rib by rib,” he says in the end, shame eating at him from the inside.

The God does not react.

_“You think you can do it?”_

“I think you will let me try.”

He did, once already, didn’t he?

This shiny doll-house of a town is for his children, for these Saints of his he brought over from a nightmare. These teeth that devour other Gods - his own kin - are for them, too. Everything is for his children, nothing is too much.

 _“Alright, then._ ”

Pale hands fall to the sides, black garb splits down the middle. Alfred’s mouth waters, the sweet scent of inhuman blood wraps itself around his mind and fills his lungs to bursting.

“ **_Try._ ** ”

He falls forward and flesh splits under his hands.

The God lets him feed.

 

**

 

He wakes up with the morning light, washes and dresses with no hurry.

He goes down to the cafeteria, has a breakfast of warm porridge and a strong coffee. He’s about to leave when he remembers about his cane - he left it by the bed - but discards it after a moment with a chuckle. He can afford to be less fashionable for a day.

People move out of his way when he walks and the white-frocked children look at him with wary respect, but no fear.

Alfred wonders what do they see that he’s unable to perceive. Is the blood of their God still marring his face? Or is it the fact that he feels like he could eat them all, down to the smallest bones?

He has to talk with someone who’s used to this - this whole Sainthood thing is a tad confusing.

In the park he watches the people and imagines that he can hear every heartbeat around him. Thinks up a hundred ways to silence each of them. It feels - nice - that he can, now. That there's nothing holding him back other than a lack of direct order.

Some are His healers, some are His innocence, some are His fair punishing arm. He's trying so hard to be something more than what He was made to be: a Hunter God of chase and death.

Alfred has made his choice and he is quite happy with it. With being something to be _unleashed_. Every hunter needs his dogs, isn't it right?

Mother Agatha smiles at him as he passes her and he returns it with one of his most charming ones, now knowing that she’s not blind, not at all. The wooden toy pushing her wheelchair forward is more of a decoration than anything else.

He wants to go to the Chapel, a repeat of his ascension is not an unwelcome idea - each of them pray in their own way, after all - but he doesn’t make it halfway before a leather-clad hand grasps his arm.

“I wouldn't go there,” says the crow-woman. Ah, she’s the eyes and the quick death from above, a fair warning to His enemies. She dislikes Alfred and he can understand that. There’s nothing fair or elegant about him. “The boy is still in there. He’s mad and he will stay mad for a time yet.”

The mark of another dream hasn’t washed off completely, then? How many snakes were hiding in Gilbert’s bones?

“I think he’s just angry.” But Alfred falters all the same. Does he really want to see a man being pulled apart and remade into his purest, most basic humanity? His previous jealousy seems petty and childish now, when he understands how close their God is to moving beyond their reach. “He wanted to die human.”

“And now he won't die at all,” the woman disapproves, obviously, but there’s nothing to be done. They can either be happy in this dream, or dead in another. “But neither will you, Executioner.”

That’s… agreeable.

It’s the first for him, but there it is - he can live with that.

 

**

 

They say that a God resides in Yharnam.


End file.
